


walk out into the dark (led by your beating heart)

by erce3



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/F, crookshanks is a thing in this fic bc im v passionate abt cat ladies pansy & hermione ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:24:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7965961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erce3/pseuds/erce3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, Hermione isn't sure whether or not she'd like to kill or kiss her roommate, Pansy Parkinson.</p><p>Or, the pansmione roommates AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i told you to be patient

**Author's Note:**

> for the hp femslash big bang!! 
> 
> ty to my betas @alisonjayreynolds and @ahmortentia!! this fic would barely be a thing w/o them. also ty to @lunavlovegood for being supportive of my crookshanks obsession & love for pansmione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which pansy & hermione get used to the idea of being roommates

If Pansy Parkinson ever had a reason to calm down, this is it. Since she’d received the email notifying her that she’d been randomly assigned to a roommate (inducing a wave of panic because she’d forgotten to fill out the form, what an _idiot_ ), she’d already had high stress levels. Now, knowing her roommate was _Hermione Granger_ , that was worse.

 

She decides to go to the local art museum. Draco always had teased her for her love of places like these, warm and still and comforting. It wasn’t a place anyone expected to see her, Pansy knew, but it calmed her down ever since she was little, and it wasn’t exactly a bad habit, nor worth throwing away.

 

The only issue with local–free–art museums is the amount of college students wandering it in ratty flip-flops and cracked smartphones. And of course, it’s just her luck to see the one college student she’s been avoiding, Hermione Granger. She actually doesn’t spot the characteristic bushy hair at first; everyone knows that at art museums, the world is slightly softer, less punctuated, and Pansy is far less on her toes.

 

She’s here to sketch art, to calm down, and she’s been so absorbed in the lines and shapes being reproduced into her beat-up sketchbook that she barely even recognized the dark-skinned girl.

 

So, when she does, it’s because she almost bumps into her, and suddenly her mind catches up with her surroundings. Her eyes are torn away from her favorite pastel Monet to fix a glare on Hermione Granger.

 

It takes her another three seconds to come up with an insult to get Granger to move. “As I’m sure you know,” she says in a sickly sweet voice, and to her delight, Granger jumps and turns to stare at her, “everyone would rather stare at the art, not you.”

 

Granger’s eyes narrow. “I’m sorry, Parkinson,” she snaps, but Pansy basks in the satisfaction that she’s stuttering and playing with her hands, both signs of embarrassment. “I forgot that you weren’t about sharing.”

 

Pansy sneers. “Really, Granger,” she responds, “because that’s what I’m asking you to do, you know. Share the view.” She glances at her freshly manicured nails and adds, “Of course, for a brain that goes so fast, you are really quite slow, aren’t you?”

 

Granger’s probably gone a shade whiter in anger. “You’re just doing this because you have _me_ as a roommate, aren’t you,” she snaps, and Pansy stops. “I mean, I thought you had enough friends to choose from for a roommate, but–”

 

“But what?” says Pansy, tone icy. She’s still inspecting her nails, trying to appear aloof, because Hermione Granger has just hit the nail on the head. She _is_ angry because she has Granger as a roommate. In fact, so angry she came to an art museum to breathe, though Granger doesn’t seem to care about Pansy needing space before the impending year together. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Granger,” she sneers. “ _Some people_ just want to look at Monet’s masterpieces.”

 

Granger sends her a scowl before scanning the room, probably looking for a dweeby redhead and his lanky green-eyed friend. Something in Pansy starts, as if she doesn’t want to be seen at an art museum, holding a beaten sketchbook and without perfectly tailored mannerisms. It’s as if people knowing her humanity would strip something away from her.

 

She tosses her hair anyways. Granger watches the crowd for a couple more moments, just too long for Pansy to resist. “Looking for someone to save you, Granger?” she drawls.

 

Granger doesn’t even bother to respond. She gives Pansy one cold, hard glance before storming off. Pansy watches her go, and only returns to the Monet painting after noticing her gaze lingering in the spot where Granger left.

 

Somehow, she can’t concentrate the same way. She finds her favorite painting, sits down at a bench, and tries to sketch it, but it comes out _wrong_ and she’s a little too distracted, a little too out-of-sorts, for it to work, and anger begins to double, triple even, in her throat.

 

She takes a deep breath in, wills her fingers to stop shaking.

 

Pansy flips to the next page to begin again; she won’t let Granger stop her from destressing. Her hair could, potentially, fall out in clumps, if she doesn’t calm down.

 

Her phone buzzes before she can start, and she glances down. It’s Draco. Of course. She doesn’t exactly want to respond–they’re fighting (they’re always fighting, it feels like), so she sets it back down again.

 

Of course, it’s entirely her fault they’re fighting, seeing as she ditched him this summer holiday and then used him as an alibi–one that she told her parents (mainly to get out of their annual trip abroad) and then ignored both parties for the next few months, part of the reason she forgot to fill out her form to request a roommate.

 

She’s about to begin drawing again when it buzzes for a second time, and then a third. Glaring at it, she opens it up to type an angry _what??_ , but then stops.

 

draco malfoy (3:09 PM): pansy we need to chalk

draco malfoy (3:09 PM): hawk

draco malfoy (3:09 PM): TALK

 

She raises an eyebrow. Two more notifications chime.

 

draco malfoy (3:10 PM): oh my god ANSWER YOUR GOTHAM PHONE

draco malfoy (3:10 PM): GODDAMN

 

At this point, it’s almost too amusing to answer.

 

draco malfoy (3:11 PM): stop ignatius me!!!

draco malfoy (3:11 PM): IGNITE

draco malfoy (3:11 PM): IGNORE FUCKING

 

_Almost._

 

draco malfoy (3:13 PM): pansy communication is key

pansy parkinson (3:14 PM): double txt rule b

draco malfoy (3:15 PM): fuck off pansy

 

Pansy decides to take her time, then, just to spite him. She stuffs her sketchbook in her purse and dusts herself off before heading out of the gallery. She catches herself looking around for bushy hair and stops herself, sighing inwardly. Her phone buzzes a couple more times in her hand.

 

draco malfoy (3:16 PM): wait no i didn’t mean it

draco malfoy (3:17 PM): pansy!!!!!

draco malfoy (3:17 PM): oh my god

draco malfoy (3:17 PM): this is why no one texts you

pansy parkinson (3:17 PM): this is y evry1 txts me

draco malfoy (3:17 PM): i hate you

pansy parkinson (3:18 PM): so b drinks or smth?

draco malfoy (3:18 PM): i really hate you

 

She smirks and waits for him to send another text, heading to her car.

 

draco malfoy (3:18 PM): alright sounds good what’s your room number

pansy parkinson (3:18 PM): 214 same dorm building as u

draco malfoy (3:19 PM): got it

 

A feeling of warmth spreads in her chest and she gives her phone another quick smile. She’s missed Draco Malfoy, really.

 

/ /

 

Hermione Granger has no idea what she’s going to do. She has half a plan, which includes either a sleeping bag and the library, or Professor McGonagall _opening her office door_. She knows she can’t be roommates with Pansy Parkinson, and the meeting at the gallery has only solidified this knowledge.

 

To be fair, she _has_ sent at least ten emails–none of which have been answered. Therefore, it’s clearly justified she visit the professor. She’d possibly camp outside the office door for a slim chance to change her roommate.

 

In fact, she’s really, actually considering it, looking around for a good place to sleep, in case McGonagall doesn’t come out until late, and she’s used her backpack as a purse before, so, she’s fairly certain she could pull this off. It’s not like McGonagall would spend more than twenty-four hours in her office, anyways–she does have some classes to teach.

 

She’s about to knock again, louder, when McGonagall opens the door and sighs. “Ms. Granger,” she says, “I really don’t think all this is necessary.”

 

“Oh, Professor,” starts Hermione, “You don’t _understand_!” She steps into the office before McGonagall can push her out.

 

“We get plenty of requests to change roommates every year, Ms. Granger, so I think I have to disagree with you there.”

 

“Why can’t you pair me up with a different person, then?” Hermione doesn’t even bring up the fact McGonagall didn’t answer _any_ of her emails.

 

McGonagall looks down at her through the rectangular lenses of her glasses, a frown plastered on her face.

 

“Please, Professor.” Hermione clasps her hands together in one last, desperate attempt to convince McGonagall.

 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Granger, it just can’t be done,” McGonagall says briskly, in a way that suggests the conversation is over.

 

Hermione deflates. “Professor, she _hates_ me!”

 

McGonagall pushes Hermione gently out of her office. Hermione starts to blubber, repeating her last two sentences over and over again in some distorted loop, like a scratched record on repeat. She’s not proud of how close to tears she is, but if it gives her some sort of chance, she could care less about shame.

 

She takes a breath and starts again, trying to explain how unbearable Pansy Parkinson is, and McGonagall takes the time to interrupt: “I’m sorry, Ms. Granger. Goodbye.”

 

The office door swings shut with a finality that sinks in slowly like a rock in her stomach. She’s stuck with _Pansy Parkinson_ for a whole year. Pansy _Parkinson_.

 

Hermione stands outside the office for a few moments to calculate her options. She’s too broke to buy a sleeping bag and live in the library, so it’s clear that she has to move her stuff into her room and live there, but she doesn’t want to do that, either. However, if she spends a couple weeks with Pansy and she really, honestly can’t take it (which is, of course, the likely outcome), maybe Ron and Harry will let her move in with them.

 

With that in mind, she ends up getting the cardboard boxes of her stuff and hauling them to room 214, complaining inwardly the entire time.

 

Pansy Parkinson arrives sometime between the unpacking of her second-to-last box and retrieving of her last one.

 

Hermione’s in an old t-shirt and worn sneakers, panting and sweating slightly from all the stairs she’s just huffed up with heavy boxes of her things, when she spots Pansy. Pansy seems to notice her, too, as she looks up, carelessly flips her gorgeous hair, shuts her glossy magazine, and then makes a face. Most of it’s obscured by the cat-eye sunglasses she’s wearing (Pansy Parkinson’s expressions are _all_ eyebrows), which she thinks are, frankly, ridiculous, seeing as they’re _indoors_.

 

Pansy lowers her sunglasses to the bridge of her nose to look at Hermione. It hits her suddenly, like a brick wall, that she’s stuck with _Pansy Parkinson_ as her roommate. Somehow she didn’t quite believe her luck (or lack thereof) before this.

 

Two things suddenly occur to Hermione: one, how on _Earth_ is Pansy pulling off the sunglasses indoors look, and two, how on Earth is Hermione this unlucky? She looks down at her ratty clothing and feels a blush creeping into her cheeks.

 

“Fuck,” says Pansy. It’s half like she’s forgotten everything: the email and their brief fight at the art museum. “I really _don’t_ deserve this, you know.”

 

Hermione frowns. She’d have to disagree–Pansy deserves this, but Hermione doesn’t.

 

Pansy sighs and massages her temples. “I have masking tape,” she says, slowly, sliding off of Hermione’s bed to look through her trunk of stuff. She’s in a pair of black, high-waisted shorts and a crop top, which rises as she bends over, showing off a sliver of her pale back.

 

“Er, what?” says Hermione, distracted momentarily.

 

“Don't be an idiot, Granger,” Pansy snaps, and pulls out her bright pink tape. “Boundaries,” she says, shaking the roll. “Unless you object?” She says this knowingly, like she’s got Hermione all figured out and she could predict, possibly to the word, what Hermione will say.

 

In response, Hermione says nothing, but spreads out her hands in a _go ahead_ gesture. Pansy walks between the beds, find the middle, and swiftly draws the line to cut their dorm room into two.

 

Hermione stares at the neon pink tape. Her expression grows colder and she adds, somewhat icily, “Though I’d like to mention that this is my side, so if you plan to be a hypocrite in the future—”

 

“Sorry, Granger, didn't realize you had a stick up your ass.”

 

Hermione glares at her. “First comes first serve.” After a moment, she adds, mimicking Pansy’s tone, “didn’t realize you were so spoiled.”

 

Pansy rolls her eyes. The only reason Hermione can _see_ this eye-roll is due to the sunglasses hanging on the end of Pansy’s nose, which shouldn’t be there because they’re _indoors_ and Pansy looks _unfairly_ good in them. Pansy notices Hermione watching her glasses and pulls them off. She then walks over to her side of the room, and sets them on her desk. “Fine. _I’m_ not picky.”

 

Hermione forces a smile. “Great.” Pansy doesn’t give her one back. Hermione lets it go (she already knew Pansy was a _female dog_ ), and decides to busy herself by hanging up posters and organizing her desk when a knock on the door interrupts the uncomfortably thick silence.

 

“Draco, that took you _forever_. Honestly, I was hoping you’d help me move in.” Pansy gives him a warm smile that has something behind it Hermione can’t quite figure out.

 

“Pans. How was your summer?” he says, in a weirdly accusatory way, and then, pausing, “What’s Granger doing here?”

Before Pansy can answer, Hermione snaps, “ _Granger_ is in the room because she’s Pansy’s roommate.”

 

“Didn’t know you bite,” says Draco, holding his hands up, with a smirk that Hermione would really, really like to smack off his face–the prat. He adds to Pansy, “Sorry.”

 

“It’s okay.” Pansy rolls her eyes. “Just ignore her. Want to go get a drink?”

 

“There’s a party later, maybe we could have dinner before then?”

 

“Are you asking me on a _date_?” she gives him a little shove and he laughs at her.

 

“You’ve got to talk on a date,” he drawls, but Pansy just frowns at him.

 

“I got the hint when you asked for dinner,” she says, then glances at Hermione before adding, “I found the _perfect_ dress this summer. You have to see it.”

 

“This summer, huh? And you didn’t send pictures?” he asks, pretending to be wounded. (Somehow, it feels like he actually _is_ , though Hermione can’t fathom why).

 

“Let me just go put it on, okay?”

 

He rolls his eyes and nods.

 

“Don’t tell me in _one summer_ you’ve given up your passion for nice clothes!” She says and sticks her tongue out at him.

 

They leave five minutes later, Pansy in a tight (but very flattering) black dress, chattering about what _Pansy_ did this summer, because _you already know how I spent mine, Pans!_

 

Hermione Granger huffs and starts her homework, deciding _not_ to waste her time thinking about what Pansy Parkinson is going to get up to.

 

/ /

 

Draco takes Pansy to dinner at a country club, and she ends up in his lap, tracing patterns onto his nice jeans with her finger. This is exactly how they work–it feels natural, really, to be dipped in his arms, feeling the faint pulsing of his heart on her back and knowing, knowing this is as close as she’ll get to loving him.

 

She wonders, briefly, if he thinks the same thing. If he smells her floral shampoo and sweet perfume and knows he won’t–can’t love her, not in the way that they need.

 

She runs a hand through her hair and he leans in closer to her. He smells like cologne and grass.

 

“God,” he says, “How do we always end up like this?” He’s carefully avoiding what they both know, and Pansy smirks and feeds him a french fry dipped in ketchup.

 

“Don’t get too sentimental, dear,” she snips, and she swears, she can feel his eyes roll.

 

“ _I’m_ the sentimental one?” Draco responds, slowly, a smirk spreading across his pale features.

 

Pansy huffs. “More than you’d admit.”

 

“You’re the one in my lap.”

 

“You’re the one who let me into your lap. _And_ took me on a date.”

 

“I’m a gentleman,” he says. “Born and raised.”

 

They both give a half-laugh at this, and Pansy stretches out more. “Well,” she says, slowly, as if she really doesn’t believe anything she’s going to say next, “then I’m a lady.”

 

Draco gives her a real, true snort. She pats him on the back in response as she slides off of him. “I’m tired,” she announces. “Let’s go to a party.”

 

He glares at her.

  
She glares right back and saunters out, all the while jingling his car keys in her left hand. She can hear his reluctant footsteps behind her.


	2. staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which theo is an ass but crookshanks is soft

Hermione Granger is going crazy.

 

It’s been exactly two weeks, and every time she so much as  _ accidentally _ puts her toe  _ on _ the pink tape strip, Pansy Parkinson has a fit. And it’s not like she gets any sleep, because Pansy leaves at seven with Draco, or Lavender, or  _ whomever _ (Hermione has better things to do than memorize those in Pansy’s company), and returns drunk at some awfully early hour, possibly giggling, though always unnecessarily loud.

 

She’s debating moving in with Ron Weasley and Harry Potter.

 

“Granger,” says an annoyed Pansy, and she sighs inwardly. 

 

“Go away,” says Hermione, rolling her eyes. “Please, just leave me alone. I’m trying to study.”

  
  
“It’s not my fault,” snaps Pansy, “that you leave your textbooks in a  _ mess _ on  _ my side of the room _ !”

 

“Oh,” says Hermione, glaring, “right. Like the bathroom isn’t a mess with  _ all your stuff. _ And, who does all the laundry, even yours? Me! So, do me a favor and shut up,  _ please _ .”

 

Pansy huffs. “When did you become such a liar? It’s not an attractive trait, you know.”

 

“The glory of a chore wheel,” snaps Hermione, “is everyone is  _ supposed _ to do an equal share.”

 

“We don’t  _ need _ one, because my side is tidy, except for your lazy ass leaving textbooks all over the floor!”

 

Hermione bristles. “This is ridiculous! At this point, you’re  _ looking _ to pick fights with me!”

 

“Oh yes, like I  _ enjoy _ being annoyed all the time,” Pansy says, flipping her hair.

 

Hermione waves her hand and storms out of the room. She  _ really _ just might move in with Harry and Ron.

 

At that very thought, her phone buzzes.

 

The thing about Ron Weasley: he never texts. He’s the only person who ever calls her, save for Hermione’s mother and father, so she knows instantly it’s him.

 

She picks up her phone. “Hey, Ron,” she says, trying to sound calm, like Pansy Parkinson hasn’t pushed  _ every button _ Hermione has in the last two weeks.

 

“Hermione, you like cats, right?”

 

It’s then she knows this conversation has already taken a bad turn. “Well, I’ve always wanted one, but I’m a bit broke righ–”

 

“They found it on the side of the road, and it’s really ugly, but everyone feels bad for it, because it  _ was _ abandoned–”

 

“Slow  _ down _ , Ron.” 

 

He doesn’t. “It’s just, it was all by itself in the rain and I kind of feel bad for it, which is kind of stupid, because he’s a prat, but you like cats, right, so–”

 

“Ron,” Hermione sighs, “I have  _ Pansy _ as a roommate. Why on Earth would she be willing to let me have a cat?”

 

“Hermione–”

 

She huffs. She lets out another sigh. “Fine. Alright. I’ll be down there in five.” She really never could resist a cat.

 

And, as it turns out, it’s true–Crookshanks has a squashed face, but he is sweet, really, if you get past his claws and his damp fur. But Hermione instantly falls in love with him, which is an issue.

  
“So,” says Ron, “you’ll keep him?”

  
Hermione looks down at the orange kitten currently in her lap. She really, really wants to keep him. “It’s against the rules, Ronald.”

 

“Don’t  _ Ronald _ me, Hermione.” A pause. “Will you?”

 

Harry appears in the doorway as Hermione coos over Crookshanks. “Please get him away from me,” he says, handing Ron a cup of tea. “Want one?” he offers to Hermione. She frowns up at him.

 

“Thanks, mate,” says Ron, and then, to Hermione, “he’s an asshole, he is!”

 

“He’s just  _ misunderstood _ ,” says Hermione stubbornly.

 

“So take him  _ home _ ,” says Harry.

 

“And Pansy?”

 

“If she throws a big fit, we’ll take him back. Or you can blame us. Or something.”

 

“What if she uses him as a reason to say I’m not a fit roommate?” asks Hermione, raising an eyebrow.

 

“She  _ won’t _ . Or, best case scenario, you get a new one,” Harry says, frustrated. “Please just  _ take the bloody cat _ .”

 

“This is true,” Hermione responds, thoughtfully. Harry and Ron are looking at her with almost pitifully pleading faces. “I suppose I will take Crookshanks, which is a horrible name, Ronald, I just thought you should know.”

 

“Thanks, Hermione.” Ron looks relieved.

 

“You owe me,” she says. “So, who found him, exactly?”

 

“Luna and Ginny,” explains Harry, sighing. “And Ginny wouldn’t let Luna keep it–”

 

“Him,” corrects Hermione automatically.

 

“And so Luna thought of giving  _ him _ to us, which Gin thought was either really funny, or really brilliant, because we’d just pass it–er, him, to you.”

 

“Oh,” says Hermione, getting up to leave. “Alright. You  _ could _ have just taken him to the pound, you know.”   
  
“When he can have such a nice owner here?” says Ron, and she shoots him a  _ look _ .

 

“Well,” she says, “if Pansy crucifies me, it’s all your fault.”

 

When she takes him back to her dorm room, it’s quiet, meaning Pansy must have already gone out to a party. Which, of course, is not unexpected. She sets Crookshanks down and sighs. “I guess,” she says, “I’ll have to go get you some cat food, huh?”

 

Crookshanks meows at her.

 

“I know,” she says, and then, “stay here, I’ll be back with food, and kitty litter.”

 

He meows again and swipes at her. She smiles at him.  

 

/ /

 

Pansy Parkinson takes a sip of beer from her red plastic cup (such a cliche, she thinks). They’re playing truth or dare, which is a particularly tricky game if you have as many secrets as Pansy does. Lavender and Parvati are on her right, however, and Draco’s on her left, so it isn’t that bad. She’s feeling a bit risky, anyways.

 

Lavender picks Theodore Nott. He wrinkles his nose and Lavender glares at him. The thing about Lavender, no matter how giggly alcohol makes her, is that she handles derogatory looks extremely well. “Truth or dare?” she asks, flipping her hair back, not appearing phased by Theo.

 

“Dare,” he says, which is what Theodore  _ always _ says. 

 

“I dare you...” says Lavender, pausing to think. She looks at Parvati, who gives her a wicked grin before whispering something in her ear. “I dare you to tell us the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

 

“That’s a  _ truth _ ,” he says, frustrated.

 

“Just  _ do _ it,” Pansy snaps, “it’s not like you’re bright enough to have any good ones.”

 

He fixes a glare on her. She gives him an equally cold one and takes a sip of her beer. 

 

“Fine. This one: I’ve never told any lies.” He winks.

 

“Lame,” calls Parvati. 

 

“Seconded,” says Pansy.

 

“Third..ed,” says Lavender, and giggles. 

 

He gives them the finger and casts his gaze on Pansy. He gives her this slow, cruel grin that she can  _ feel _ and she shivers. “So, Pans, truth or dare?”

 

“Truth,” she says, afraid of whatever dare he can think up. The way he says “Pans” feels dangerous, like she’s handling fire.

 

His grin gets bigger and suddenly she’s certain she’s miscalculated. “Answer this: are you gay?”

 

She stops cold. Everyone in the room reacts, except for Pansy. She feels Draco stiffen, and Lavender redden, and Parvati’s glare at Theodore deepen. Theodore Nott’s smirk widens.

 

Pansy stays still. She listens to her heart, her only reaction, and how it beats quickly and fiercely. She’s afraid, she dimly recognizes, and she feels her fear in her fingers, in her toes, in her throat. But not–not on her tongue.

 

“Oh, grow up, Theo,” she snaps, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Sighing, she adds, tone having grown colder, “and  _ don’t _ be ridiculous. You’re trying far too hard, you know. I wonder,” she finishes, glare suddenly warmer and smile dangerous, “why you asked the question, hm?” 

 

“That’s not a no,” he says, but his grin has faltered.

 

Pansy’s particularly good at being mean, she thinks, and this is a good time to be mean. It’s just–it’s so hard to be mean when she’s heart-stoppingly afraid. “It is a no. Would you like me to repeat what I said before, more simply, so that you can understand?” A pause. “Yes? Alright. No, Theodore, I am not gay, but you just made everyone in the room–” she gestures at the party playing truth or dare, all silent, “–wonder if you are.”

  
Lies aren’t supposed to feel thick and heavy on Pansy’s tongue. Usually, when they don’t matter nearly as much, they come off silvery and glinting. Lies are what Pansy spins. She gives them wings, and they always fly.

 

This lie falls flat. It crashes, tumbles, as if it’s a fat, cement pigeon. Draco’s the one who catches it before it smashes, adding, “You did you ask so you wouldn’t be the only one in the room, didn’t you?”

 

His sneer is as haughty as hers, but when his hand finds her own, it’s warm and comforting and soft. 

 

Theodore puts his hands up. “Whoa, man, calm down.”

 

There’s still blood rushing, her heartbeat is still erratic, but it’s okay. She’s safe. She spins the bottle and it lands on Blaise.

 

“Truth or Dare?” Fear is what makes Pansy Parkinson mean, and her body is coursing with it.

 

“Dare,” says Blaise, looking at Pansy half-worriedly, like he knows he’ll be punished for Theo’s actions.

  
“Go make out with Theodore,” says Pansy, “because clearly, that’s what he really wants.” (it’s not mean enough, she thinks, but she’s suddenly drained and she’s not going to pick a fight in front of a crowd). She gets up to leave.

 

Draco gets up with her, and she lets him lead her out of the room and drive her home. 

 

On the road, Draco says, “I’m sorry.”

 

“I don’t blame you.”

  
“You blame Theodore.”

 

It’s surprising, really, how Pansy hasn’t collapsed into tears. Maybe it’s because as much as she loves Draco, she can’t do it in front of him. “Why shouldn’t I?” she says, but really, it’s to herself, because she can’t bring herself to hate anyone, to be mad. She just feels guilty and disgusting, a mess of wrong parts sewn together.

 

“Pans,” he starts, but she shushes him.

 

“I just want to go home,” she says.

 

So they do.

 

When she enters her dorm, Hermione’s asleep. A cat presses against her leg.

 

It’s truly ridiculous that  _ this _ is what causes the tears to come. Draco is gone, Theodore is a million thoughts away, and here she is, with an orange cat with a squashed face, balling her eyes out.

 

“You’re so soft,” she tells him, fat teardrops landing on his fur, “and I’m so tired.”

 

He meows and she holds him tighter. (Her dress is going to be  _ so orange _ after this). “I love you,” she says, sniffling and wiping a the tears that are falling faster and faster, “and Theodore Nott is a  _ prat _ who deserves his face to look like yours, no offense.”

 

The cat is silent. She buries her head into his soft fur. Sure, it’s a bit matted, but she  _ loves _ his fur. “You’re so soft,” she says again, and this causes her to cry  _ more _ , because he’s so soft and she loves him and she’s getting his fur wet and–

 

Hermione shifts and she doesn’t have the intelligence to  _ stop crying _ .

 

“Pansy,” says Hermione, in a sleep-heavy way, and Pansy can hardly begin to imagine what she looks like: sobbing into a cat at god-knows-what-time, mascara smeared, but Hermione, in her dazed state, doesn’t seem to pick up on it. “This is Crookshanks. I hope it’s okay if I–er, we–”

 

“I  _ love  _ him,” says Pansy, holding Crookshanks tighter. He settles into her arms, possibly realizing she is not going to let go.

 

“Wow,” says Hermione. “He’s so much calmer. He can be a bit vicious, but he really likes you.” She’s still sleepy, and confused, and Pansy  _ knows _ she should get her act together, but she’s too dramatic, and anyways, she’s spent too much time tonight  _ getting _ her act together. Hermione’s in a big t-shirt and mismatching socks, and she’s rubbing at her eyes like she hasn’t noticed Pansy’s tear-stained cheeks. 

 

“That makes one person in the whole wide world,” says Pansy, and with this, Hermione sinks lower to the ground. She seems to finally notice that Pansy’s crying.

 

“Are you alright?” she asks.

 

“No.”

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“I want to throw up,” offers Pansy, letting a purring Crookshanks down and crawling to the bathroom. Hermione follows her, and holds up Pansy’s hair when she  _ does _ throw up into the toilet. 

  
She sinks back down to the ground, and this time, Hermione holds her. 

 

Pansy’s head is spinning. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks, leaning her sweaty head against Hermione’s shoulder. 

 

“Because you’re sad, and drunk,” says Hermione, before adding, “and you’re letting me keep Crookshanks.”

 

“I love him.”

 

“I know. Me too. Do you want any water, or something to eat?”

 

“Korean food,” says Pansy instantly, before she knows she’s said it. She doesn’t clarify, just adds, “Crookshanks is such a nice color.”

 

Hermione nods. “Do you have a restaurant in mind?”

 

Pansy does (it’s her favorite), but she makes Hermione order the take-out. It’s because Hermione’s voice is cool and measured, and she hasn’t just been crying. Pansy crawls over to the bathroom to change into a pair of sweatpants and an old tank top, shedding her dress like it’s poisonous. She says in the bathroom for a little longer afterwards, washing her face and practicing measured breathing in the mirror. 

 

When the food comes, Hermione calls her name and she teeters out of the bathroom. It smells  _ good _ , and she realizes how hungry she is. “Come, sit here,” says Hermione, and Pansy does. She sits on Hermione’s bed and devours the food. Hermione steals some of her it and lets her hold Crookshanks, the latter making her extremely grateful.

 

“Hermione,” says Pansy, after she’s finished, quickly sobering. “It’s, like, three in the morning.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I’m sorry.” She’s feeling better, and also slightly mortified, because  _ what has she just put her roommate through _ and  _ Hermione will never see her as aloof or cool ever again _ .

 

“It’s okay.” 

 

Pansy scoots closer to Hermione. “It’s just, you remember last year, right?”

 

Hermione laughs. “I haven’t been to a party since.” Pansy’s referencing the first time they met–a full out fight, and how they held grudges for long afterwards. Hermione’s forgiven Pansy for what she said, she realizes.

 

“Amazing,” says Pansy, wide-eyed in  wonder. “Only  _ one _ party.”

 

“Yeah. One party, frosh week,” says Hermione, before adding, since she’s already curious, and far less groggy than before, “So, what about it?”

 

Pansy frowns. Even in her muddled state, she’s strategic, and Hermione can  _ see _ her walls coming right back up. It’s like she suddenly wants to take back what she’s said.

 

“I just went to one,” she says, and giggles (in this fake way that bothers Hermione, but she can’t figure out why), and it feels like there’s more to it, but Hermione doesn’t push.

 

“Oh,” she says. “Well, I hope you feel better in the morning.”

 

Pansy gives her a face. “No promises.”

 

“Okay,” says Hermione, sighing. “Okay.”

  
  
Somehow, it feels like she’s let something just out of her grasp, but she can’t tell what.


	3. cut out all the ropes and let me fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which pansy pushes everyone away

Hermione wakes up first, confused and disoriented. The first thing she notices: she’s sleeping with Pansy, whose hair is messy but very soft, and Hermione’s head fits perfectly into the crook of Pansy’s neck and shoulder (and Pansy’s perfume is nice but not headache-inducing). Pansy has one leg between Hermione’s two. Her arms are on Hermione’s chest and Hermione’s are wrapped around Pansy’s back and for some reason, it’s so comfortable and natural, she wants to go back to sleep. She closes her eyes and leans into Pansy, basking in her warmth.

 

It takes five minutes of breathing in Pansy for it to hit her, that this is  _ Pansy Parkinson _ she’s curled up with, and no bile is building up in her throat. She just wants to pull her in closer. She takes a measured breath an untangles their bodies to make a cup of coffee. She’s never seen Pansy drink coffee when she racks her brain for it, but she has a feeling she’ll appreciate it.

 

Crookshanks hops up onto her bed and curls up in the place Hermione was sleeping. 

 

Pansy gets up a few moments later, and leans against her desk. “Morning,” she says, looking dishevelled and sleepy, but still unfairly pretty. (She always looks unfairly pretty, Hermione thinks).

 

Hermione jumps. “Oh! You’re up! Good morning!” she answers, and grabs a mug of coffee. “There’s sugar and milk, if you want it,” she says. “How’s your head?”

 

“Don’t be too chipper,  _ mom _ ,” Pansy grumbles, but takes the coffee. “I don’t usually drink coffee,” she adds, not in an accusatory way, seeing as she takes a sip nonetheless. “I read somewhere caffeine is  _ so _ bad for you.”

 

“Says the person who goes off and gets drunk every weekend.”

 

Pansy laughs, and this reminds Hermione that they’re not enemies, all of a sudden, which is really, really nice. She winces, and adds, “That is, perhaps, a habit not worth keeping.”

 

“Drink,” instructs Hermione. “I blew my last bit of cash for our late-night dinner, so how do you feel about leftovers for breakfast?”

 

“Hm,” says Pansy, “that sounds fine, thanks. I’ll pay next time.”

 

She doesn’t even notice what she’s said until Hermione pauses. 

 

She goes this weird color, a little paler, perhaps, and adds, in a snappy tone, “I’m made of money, Granger. So. I’ll pay, next time.”

 

It’s weird seeing a very human, vulnerable side of Pansy. She’s playing with her fingers and unable to meet Hermione’s eye, and Hermione suddenly feels  _ safer _ with the Pansy who’s rolled off her bed this morning. “Yeah, that sounds good,” says Hermione cautiously, even though Pansy didn’t exactly  _ offer _ a next time, but commanded it. “But only if you help me with Crookshanks.”

 

“Is he house-trained?” asks Pansy.

 

“Yes,” says Hermione. “Whoever left him by the side of the road–”

 

“ _ No _ ,” says Pansy, gasping overdramatically. She does, however, look actually wounded. “I don’t believe it! He’s so sweet!”   
  
Hermione swears she can hear Crookshanks purring, and laughs. “Wait until I tell Ron and Harry you agree with me.”

 

Pansy rolls her eyes. “I’m telling you, these boys have no judgement. My Draco would say the same thing.” She pauses. “Speaking of Draco, I should call him.” She pauses, as if considering. “No, text him.”

 

“Oh, er, right,” says Hermione, feeling peculiarly like Pansy was going to waltz out, and Hermione’s going to be stuck here, wondering when she’ll see this side of Pansy again. Maybe this is how Pansy has so many friends, Hermione muses, because they’re all hoping to see a certain side of Pansy. 

 

“By the way,” Hermione adds, in a more cautious tone than before. “I’m going to watch a documentary for extra credit. You can join me, if you want.”

 

Pansy holds ups a finger as if to say,  _ hold on _ .

 

pansy parkinson (11:14): hey b

draco malfoy (11:14): hey want to go for lunch?

 

Pansy looks at Hermione, considering. “What is it?” 

 

Hermione opens her mouth, and Pansy sighs.

 

“No, no, it’s good. I’ll watch it. Though  _ please _ tell me it’s not another law one. Those are always so annoying.”

 

pansy parkinson (11:15): cant, dinner mayb?

draco malfoy (11:15) ok

 

Hermione gives her a wide smile, and Pansy swears she can feel it in her stomach, like a warm sip of tea, or something.

 

“It’s a law one, by the way,” says Hermione, shrugging. “I  _ am _ majoring in law, so.”

 

Pansy laughs. The morning is warm, and sweet, and she settles next to Hermione. “Alright,” she says. “Let’s get it over with, then.”

 

/ /

 

Draco invites Pansy to dinner. It’s a fancy place, and she teases him about this being a date, even though they both know what the other won’t say. She doesn’t tell him about making friends with Hermione Granger (how do you tell your best friend you’d rather cry in front of an enemy than him?) and doesn’t talk about the party. It’s a mutual agreement not to bring up last night, so they remain silent.

 

She’s wearing her nice diamond earrings. He’s wearing his expensive shoes.

 

She orders a shrimp salad. He orders a steak, medium rare.

 

They don’t talk.

 

Pansy  _ knows _ he has news for her, because the only time he invites her out for a meal is to make up after a fight, or to tell her news, but she’s too afraid of what he’ll say. Draco’s silence is more than worrying, she thinks. They always know how to tell someone something, she thinks. Always.

 

Finally, Draco says, “I’m gay.”

 

Pansy looks at him and bursts out laughing, the worry escaping her quickly like steam off of wet cement, disappearing into the air. He gives her a sheepish smile. “ _ That’s _ what you brought me here to tell me?” she says, wiping a tear from her eye. “Because I already knew that, darling.”

 

Draco bristles. “I  _ know _ you know, Pans.”

 

She nods. “Okay, then, what?”

 

“I want to come out to my parents.”

 

Something in her throat catches. “And you came to me, why?” She makes up an excuse, quickly, easily: you’re my best friend, but the way he says it, so delicately, lets her know it’s for another reason entirely. One that burns a hole in her chest.

 

She can already feel herself pulling up walls that she hasn’t needed in  _ months _ . Maybe it’s because Draco is her best friend, and it feels like he’ll be moving on, without her. Maybe it’s because she knows she can never come out to her parents. Maybe it’s because she’s not even ready to come out to herself, not fully, and she’s worried he’ll leave her in the dust. Maybe it’s because she  _ isn’t ready _ like he is–isn’t that enough? Isn’t that  _ fair _ ?

 

Draco doesn’t see this. “Well, I thought you’d be supportive, because you get it, because–”

 

Pansy isn’t  _ ready _ , and Draco has been so wrapped up in his news that he doesn’t see this. She isn’t ready and she’s afraid and therefore she is cruel. “Because  _ what _ , Draco,” she snaps.

 

His expression shifts dramatically. 

 

“Because you think you have me figured out based on what Theodore Nott said, drunk, and how I reacted, drunk?”

 

“No, Pans, it’s just–”

 

“Because you’re  _ wrong _ , okay? I’m not! Go and come out to your parents, I don’t care!” She’s on the verge of screaming now. “It has  _ nothing _ to do with me!” Something inside her has snapped, and her breathing is shallow and angry and she’s suddenly fighting back tears and she  _ knows _ she’s being dramatic, but.

 

Draco swallows, as if he’s trying to keep his cool, and raises an eyebrow, just as angry as she is, at this point. “Really,” he responds, “because I see the way you look at Hermione Granger. I’m not blind, Pansy!”

 

“Really,” says Pansy, “because you’re just making things up!”

 

“Really,” says Draco firmly, “and you know what? Theodore Nott isn’t blind, either.”

 

This is the last straw. Pansy stands up, and despite knowing that Draco’s her ride, walks out. She doesn’t even hiss a  _ fuck you _ back. She can’t breathe. It feels like she’s underwater, like she’s lost, and she’s teetering as she storms out of the restaurant, food half finished, unable to even  _ cry _ .

 

She sits on the curb for a while, thinking, waiting for him to come and get her.

 

Unfortunately, he’s as stubborn as she is, so he doesn’t come. She picks up her phone, and on instinct, dials Hermione Granger. Which, of course, is ridiculous, because it just proves Draco right, but who else does she go to?

 

“Hey,” says Hermione, when she picks up.

 

“I need a ride home,” says Pansy, struggling to keep her voice from cracking.

 

“Oh. Alright. Just tell me where you are, okay?”

 

Hermione’s there in five minutes, possibly less. Pansy opens the car and sits in the front seat. She doesn’t say anything. Hermione doesn’t push her.

 

When they get into the dorm room, Pansy scoops up Crookshanks and buries her face into his fur, a sign she’s upset. “He needs to be brushed,” she says around tufts of fur.

 

“I know,” sighs Hermione. And then, more softly, “Are you alright?”

 

“No,” says Pansy, and she starts to cry. 

 

Hermione moves in to hug her, but Pansy jumps up. Suddenly, she can hear Draco’s comment haunting her, because he  _ isn’t _ blind and what has she been  _ thinking _ . 

 

“Nonononono,” whispers Pansy, all in a rush. “Not you. I can’t do this with you. I can’t.”

 

“Pansy? I’m just–”

 

“ _ No _ !” shrieks Pansy. “This is  _ all your fault _ !” 

 

Hermione pauses. “Why?”

 

Pansy’s shaking now, hard. “It’s  _ all your fault  _ that Daphne knows and Theodore knows and Draco knows and I’m  _ not _ , I’m–”

 

“Pansy, calm down,” says Hermione, voice level. “It’s not your fault. It’s okay.”

 

Suddenly, all Pansy wants is Hermione to  _ go away _ . “You’re right,” she says. “It’s  _ yours _ .”

 

Hermione opens her mouth, and the closes it. There’s silence, and then, “It’s okay to be gay, you know.”

 

Pansy explodes. Whatever shreds of self-control she had disappear into smoke and she starts to scream. “I hate you!” Pansy yells, voice getting higher and higher. “I was  _ so happy _ and now I want things I can’t have! Things I  _ can’t be _ ! I hate you, this is all your fault!”

 

Hermione backs away, stung. “I don’t think not accepting yourself is  _ my _ fault,” she hisses.

 

Pansy looks at her through teary eyes. “Go  _ away _ ,” she says, quietly. 

 

“Pansy–”

 

She only knows one way to make Hermione go away, but something in her is stopping her. She stamps on it.  _ I’m not gay _ , she thinks,  _ I can’t be _ , and she turns to Hermione. 

 

“Did you even hear me? I said,  _ go away _ ! All you do is nag me and I have to put up with it so I don’t hurt your feelings! What a waste of time, Granger. Just shut  _ up _ and leave me  _ alone _ !”

 

“Fine!” shouts Hermione. “ _ Fine _ ! I  _ won’t _ be nice to you!” She’s crying, and big, fat tears fall onto Pansy’s bedspread.

 

“I  _ hate _ you! I don’t ever want to talk to you again!” shrieks Pansy, at her wit’s end. At this point, she’s saying anything to make Hermione leave her alone. Anything to hurt her.

 

Hermione gets up. “I heard you,” she says voice a whisper, and leaves the dorm room. The door slams shut behind her.

 

For some reason, this makes Pansy feel worse than before.

 

/ /

 

Hermione ends up blubbering to Ginny, which is sad, really, but here she is, unable to get over Pansy Parkinson.

 

“She’s my roommate,” she wails, “and all I do is–is–”

 

Ginny’s not exactly the type for comforting, but that’s okay. She gives Hermione and hug and sighs into her. “It’s not your fault,” says Ginny. “This is  _ Pansy Parkinson _ we’re talking about. One moment all smiles, the next twisting a knife into your heart.”

 

Hermione doesn’t respond, just sighs. “I want a coffee,” she says, sniffling.

 

Ginny considers it. “I feel like it’s a bad idea,” she says, slowly, already getting up. She holds her hand out to Hermione and offers her a smile.

 

Hermione takes it and gives her another sniff. “I just–I should be going to Ron, or Harry, but I feel like I told you so’s are impending and–”

 

“What makes you think I wouldn’t give you an I told you so?” asks Ginny.

 

Hermione considers, teary eyed and puffy-cheeked. “I figured you would, but you would do it before comforting me, or after, so.”

 

Ginny snorts. “You have little faith in our boys.”

 

Hermione gives her watery smile. “Not for everything,” she protests, weakly.

 

“Come on, Granger, pull yourself together,” says Ginny, not unkindly, “and we can go grab ourselves a coffee.”

 

“You drink coffee?” says Hermione. “Just last week you were complaining about it  _ with Luna _ .”

 

Ginny gives her a pink-tinged smile. “Don’t tell her. Or, if you do: tell her it’s because I was comforting you.”

 

Hermione wrinkles her nose and laughs. “Okay.”

 

They end up at The Leaky Cauldron, Hermione with a latte and Ginny with a cream soda.   
  
“Wimp,” says Hermione, taking a greedy gulp and eyeing Ginny’s soda.

 

Ginny shrugs and takes a sip of her drink. “Guess that’s so.”

 

Hermione laughs, and marvels at the warmth in her stomach from the latte. They talk for a while, then, about nothing. Hermione teases Ginny about Luna. Ginny teases Hermione about Crookshanks.

 

“How am I going to go back?” she asks, softly. “To my room, I mean.”

 

Ginny considers, like she’s trying to come up with advice. “That’s not you, Hermione,” she says finally. “You’re bravery and intelligence in a package. Fight her.”

 

Hermione looks down at her now empty cup and sighs. “I don’t know if I want to.”

 

Ginny shrugs. “I’d do it anyway.”


	4. now all your love is wasted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which short friendship ends in a lingering misery

Pansy goes to four parties in a row, is tipsy for a week, skips half her classes, and continues to spiral.

 

It’s all her fault that no one’s there to stop her. She’s fighting with Draco, who has been unfairly stubborn, and now with Hermione, who won’t even  _ talk _ to her.

 

Well. It's not like Pansy has actually tried talking in the first place.

 

She sighs, snaps on her favorite cat-eye sunglasses, and makes her way to another party she’s sure she’ll come out exceedingly drunk from. Again. She vaguely knows this makes her no better than a frat boy, but  _ still _ . She’s tired. She’s sad. She deserves a break. 

 

She knows exactly how her mother would respond. “Straighten your back, Pansy,” she can practically hear, and the distaste coils in her throat. “Be a  _ lady _ , Pansy.”

 

She’s so busy fuming from all her mistakes, she ends up bumping into a bumbly, wispy-haired girl with bright pink, flower-shaped sunglasses. She’s got a purple smudge (paint?) under her chin, which she’s rubbing absently.

 

Her first thought is to blink, and say, “Twinning.”

 

The girl snaps her gaze up to Pansy’s face and suddenly Pansy realizes–this is  _ Luna Lovegood _ , for which descriptions are lacking. She’s the human definition of “outside the box”. And Pansy? She’s probably teased Luna more than she has anyone else.

  
And yet, Luna gives her a blinding smile. “I suppose you’re right,” she says, dreamily, and Pansy just looks at her. “Though, your sunglasses are only designed for keeping out the sun, not for anything else.”

 

“What else?” asks Pansy, even though she knows this is an invitation for something she might not–definitely doesn’t–want. 

 

“Well, thoughts might just get reflected onto the lenses of glasses, since they weren’t prepared to hide them.” Luna looks thoughtful, before adding, “You’re Pansy, aren’t you?”

 

Pansy blinks, and then nods. “Whose?” she says, trying to avoid whatever might come next, whatever insult Luna might throw at her.

 

“Whose what?” Luna responds, momentarily distracted.

 

“Whose thoughts.”

 

“Why,” says Luna, “yours on the left, and others’ on the right.”

 

“Oh,” says Pansy. “That’s particularly useful, if you know what to think.”

 

“Is it?” says Luna. “Can you control what you think?”

 

Pansy shrugs. “Never tried.”

 

“Neither have I.” Luna pauses. “My roommate was talking about you the other day.”

 

Pansy looks down tiredly, away from Luna’s inquisitive, and extremely intense, blue gaze. “Who?” she says.

 

“Oh, Ginny Weasley. She said–”

 

“Of course.” Pansy doesn’t even need Luna to finish her sentence.

 

Luna pauses then, and seems to collect a hint. “Well,” she says, still chipper. “Have you ever tried The Leaky Cauldron’s banana smoothies?”

 

Pansy raises an eyebrow. “Is that an offer, Luna Lovegood?” she says, and she can’t help but make it icy and mean.

 

Luna frowns. “If you want it to be.”

 

Pansy shrugs. “Guess so. Banana smoothies, though.” Her voice is still judgemental and hard, but she supposes her voice is always judgemental and hard.

 

Luna doesn’t seem to mind–her face contorts into a thousand watt smile and Pansy sits there, stunned by how  _ wide _ and  _ bright _ and  _ painful _ it is and offers an angry, icy one in return.

 

“You’re not very pleasant,” says Luna, already leading her by the hand.

  
“I try not to be,” responds Pansy. “ _ Banana _ smoothies, though.”

 

“Good for your spirit.” 

 

“I read somewhere potassium stops your heart.”

 

“Not bananas, though.”

 

/ /

 

When Pansy comes in, she’s quiet and ignores Hermione Granger. Hermione’s not sure what’s more heartbreaking–the end of a quick friendship, or its lifetime itself. “Coffee?” she says, before she can stop herself, and Pansy recoils.

 

“You’re not my mother,” Pansy snaps.

 

“At least I’m  _ trying _ to be civil.” Hermione adds, silently: midterms are coming up, and I’d die of guilt if you failed them.

 

Pansy rolls her eyes and snaps a bubble with pink bubblegum. “Maybe you should stop, then.”

 

“Do you even know how to be nice to someone?”

 

Pansy thinks it over, or pretends to. Then, easily, “No.”

 

“Well,” says Hermione, “here’s your first lesson: don’t live to see the other person flinch.”

 

Pansy goes stiff, like Hermione’s hit a nerve. “Sorry,” she says, but it sounds too sarcastic and bitter to mean anything. Hermione huffs, but against her better judgement, leaves a cup of coffee on Pansy’s desk.

 

She’s not sure how else to say,  _ I don’t want to fight anymore _ . 

 

Pansy Parkinson takes it and takes a gulp, not bothering to listen to Hermione’s warning of “it’s hot, careful.” Once she’s downed the cup, she gives her a snake-like smile, more cruel than it is kind. Hermione just sighs inwardly.

 

She leaves before Pansy can’t insult her again.

 

/ /

 

This is how it goes: Pansy skitters around Hermione’s footsteps, all cutting words and quick exits. Hermione makes her coffee and feels guilty, all the time.

 

Ginny remarks over coffee, “You know, you two are  _ never _ going to get better if you don’t–”

 

Hermione sighs. “We were doomed from the start.”   
  
“That’s not something the Hermione I know would say.” She gives Hermione a poke in the shoulder.

 

Ron nods. “I agree. Hermione, you’re  _ scary _ .”   
  
Hermione shrugs. “She’s scarier.” She pauses. “I don’t even know what I did. I mean, that’s part of the reason I’m not over it–I can’t make peace with an action I don’t remember!” She gives a hiccupy sigh and downs her coffee. “And I’d been completely–completely civil! And then she goes off to dinner with Draco Malfoy, and–”

 

“And dumps her shit on you, I get it,” says Ron. He doesn’t say,  _ serve you right for befriending Pansy Parkinson _ . He doesn’t say,  _ get over it, it’s been ages _ . He says, “You can stay with any one of us, if you want.”

 

Ginny shrugs. “She’s suddenly befriended Luna, so, I don’t think you want to move in with us.”

 

“But what about Crookshanks?” Hermione says. “He loves her.”

 

It sounds peculiarly like a break-up, thinks Hermione, but she doesn’t say it aloud.

 

“Don’t be dramatic,” says Harry. “You’re his favorite, Hermione.”

 

Hermione  _ does _ feel a little ridiculous being so mopey all the time, so she nods. “You’re right. I should just–get over her.”

  
“Amen,” says Ginny solemnly and Hermione lets out a small laugh.

 

/ /

 

“You love her,” Luna says, one day.

 

“I don’t love anyone,” says Pansy Parkinson. “Do you want to get banana smoothies?”

 

“I think I’d rather have,” and here Luna holds out a hand, so Pansy  _ knows _ she’s going to get a list of her current fuck-ups, “you to make up with Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.” She peers up at Pansy from her bright sunglasses.   
  
“That’s too many people,” says Pansy. “Maybe I should just stare at them with  _ my _ sunglasses.”

 

“They won’t know how to read your thoughts,” Luna responds passively. 

 

“I do miss Draco,” Pansy says, voice quiet.

 

“Hm,” says Luna Lovegood. She doesn’t push the topic further, to Pansy’s relief. “I wanted to tell you about this family of geese I saw today.”   
  
“Oh?”

 

“Geese give good luck, you know.”   
  
“I didn’t,” Pansy responds, dryly.

 

“Well, now you do.” A pause. “I always feed them on Sundays to get their blessings.” She looks down at her mismatched converse–one sunshine yellow, the other baby blue.

 

“Is that an invitation, Lovegood?” asks Pansy, tone always cold, but smile the warmest smirk she can manage.

 

“Do you want it to be?”

 

Pansy shrugs. “Maybe.”

 

“Well, if you do decide to come…” Luna doesn’t finish her statement, just looks off into the clouds. Pansy knows this is her cue to leave, since Luna has already departed, though in her head rather than physically. It’s not a bad thing, she muses. She’s just moved onto another thought.

 

She’s making her way to her dorm, surprisingly content, when Theodore Nott and his annoying friends pass her. 

  
She looks at him for a long time, pulling up her walls and hardening her glare. He looks right back. “What’re you staring at,  _ dyke _ ?” he says, smirking. They all laugh.

 

Pansy opens her mouth. Closes it. Shrugs. “You’re cool, Theo,” she says, sweetly. “Though you should stop using Greengrass to cover up–”

 

He stops her with a threatening step forward.

 

“–your own sexuality. She doesn’t deserve it, you know,” she finishes, winking. “Daphne is far too kind.” He glares at her. She pushes right past him and makes her way to her room.

 

When she’s there, something starts to come up in her throat, fear and panic and she’s breaking down again, sobbing, because he  _ knows _ . It comes out hard and tough and she’s shaking, and–

 

This is how Hermione finds her–a worried Crookshanks batting at her ankles, which are hanging off the bed, shoulders shaking and sobs being muffled by Pansy’s pillow.

 

“Hey,” she says, softly. “I can’t leave, if you want.”

 

Pansy twists, quickly, and looks up. “Hermione,” she says, but it’s warbly, and it hits Hermione how much Pansy has cried this year. 

 

“Or, I can get some food and–”

 

“I just ate,” says Pansy. “Please, just come sit down. I know you’re angry–I’m  _ sorry _ , I’m so just so  _ stupid _ , I just can’t do anything right.” She wipes away a tear with the back of her hand.

 

“Come to my bed,” says Hermione, softly, but pulls her closer. “I just heard about the rumor. Are you alright?”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Ginny told me,” says Hermione dismissively. “Are you alright?” she repeats.

 

“I don’t know,” says Pansy, “except, I know that you should stop being so nice to me. Really. I don’t deserve it.” She’s managed to sound clear, despite the lump in her throat and knowledge her mascara must be  _ everywhere _ at this point.

 

She pushes Hermione off and sighs. 

 

Hermione sighs right back. “We’re never going to get back to fri–what we were, if we refuse apologies, you know.”

 

“I’m not refusing an apology. I’m refusing to give one.”

 

“You’re so grumpy when you’re sad,” says Hermione. “You really do deserve to be forgiven, you know. You deserve another chance.”

 

Pansy just lets out a sad, defeated moan.

 

Hermione sighs and pulls her in closer. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay. I’ve seen you effectively shut down anyone. You can shut him down. I’ll help, if you want. Though, I’m exactly not sure how.”

 

“Take him to court,” says the ever-dramatic Pansy. “You’re a law student, aren’t you?”

 

Hermione laughs. “Guess I am.” Then, more quietly, she asks, “So, am I forgiven?” and this is tentative, because she really, really wants to be forgiven, but is afraid of Pansy’s reaction. Afraid it’ll end up the same way.

 

“What for?” asks Pansy, and sniffles. 

  
“Everything,” Hermione waves her hand.

 

There’s a pause.

 

“You keep giving me a thousand chances to be forgiven, to be a better person,” mumbles Pansy. “Stop. I’ll be a bitter old hag until the rest of my days.”

 

“I know,” says Hermione. “And I’d give you a thousand and one. Chances, I mean.”

 

“That almost sounds romantic, Granger,” Pansy says, a watery grin plastered on her face.

 

“Does it now?” she replies, and gives Pansy a hug. “You’re not so bad as you think you are, you know. Not as cool, either.”

 

“Excuse you,” says Pansy, falling back into her hug.

 

“Do you want me to get some Korean food?” asks Hermione, instead of responding.

 

“I just ate.”

 

“I didn’t.”   
  


“Fine, get pizza. I’ll have a slice.”

 

“Thank you,” says Hermione, “and by the way, I guess I forgive you. Maybe.”

 

“You’re a jerk,” says Pansy, and gives her a little shove.

 

“A hungry jerk,” says Hermione, and laughs.

 

Pansy ends up eating  _ four _ pizza slices, and they put on a movie. A bad law documentary, in fact.

 

She feels safer, amazingly, in Hermione’s arms.


	5. in the morning i'll be with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which pansy & hermione banter a lot

By the time it’s Tuesday, Hermione Granger is losing it. Her one of her professors has given her _piles_ of homework, and at this point, it’s exhausting to get a passing grade, let alone be at the top of her class, a personal goal Hermione will not fail to achieve, even if it means pulling three consecutive all-nighters to complete the paper she’s been assigned. And because of this exhaustion, she’s decided she really, really deserves a cup of coffee, regardless of the fact it’s five in the evening. She moves into the kitchen to make a cup and, after a pause and second thought, calls, “Pansy! Want one?”

 

“When _haven’t_ I wanted one?” comes the reply. Someone shuffles to the doorway and Hermione swears she can _feel_ Pansy’s smirk from behind her.

 

She turns around to give Pansy and eyeroll, but makes her a cup nonetheless. Pansy’s in a pair of cotton sweatpants and a tanktop, nothing Hermione would ever think to see Pansy in–comfortable, relaxed, and somehow still composed. “You could say please and thank you, your highness,” teases Hermione goodnaturedly. Pansy responds with a cool glare.

 

“If anything,” says Pansy, “you’re the princess here.”

 

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Am I? Are you certain?” she asks.

 

Pansy waves her hand, a smug grin etched onto her features. “Judging by all the stuff you leave around–”

 

“What stuff?” says Hermione, a hand to her chest to mock offense. “Have you even _looked_ at the mess on the bathroom counter?”

 

Pansy gives a low laugh and steps closer towards Hermione, who’s still holding her coffee cup. She instinctively holds it further away from the two of them, so as not to burn anyone. “Have you even _looked_ at the mess of your textbooks?” she mimics. The whole conversation feels familiar, but much more amiable.

 

Pansy’s so close that Hermione can see small globs of mascara on her eyelashes, messily applied this morning. Her eyes dart to Pansy’s lips, pink and soft, and she swears she can feel her breath, they’re so close. Something in her stomach flutters, and her heartbeat picks up an irregular pace.

 

“Excuse you,” says Hermione breathily, slowly, distracted by Pansy’s closeness. “Must I remind you, you get offended at the tiniest insult?”

 

“I think the word you’re looking for, then,” says Pansy, stepping impossibly closer, so that Hermione can feel Pansy’s warmth through the layers of a frayed, knitted sweater and her button-down shirt, “is _sensitive_.”

 

“Are you trying to tell me,” Hermione responds, struggling to concentrate on anything but the way Pansy looks up at her through her eyelashes. She taps a finger onto Pansy’s too-close nose, and finishes her statement, “you aren’t a cold-hearted you-know-what?”

 

Pansy laughs here, and takes a step back. The moment fades and Hermione’s erratic heartbeat slows as they face each other, Hermione somewhat hurt–it’s totally fair not to be comfortable with that word!–and Pansy incredulous that Hermione is so much of a goody-two-shoes she won’t even swear.

 

“You don’t say _bitch_?” she says through peals of laughter, but somehow it doesn’t come off totally unkindly. It’s sort of endearing, thinks Pansy, that Hermione would be so polite, even in a fight–well, banter, really, she muses.

 

Hermione shrugs, warmth creeping up her neck and into her cheeks, “I mean, it’s a misogynistic word, isn’t it?”

 

“Actually, Granger, I think it’s misogynistic if _men_ say it.”

 

“Well,” retorts Hermione, eyes narrowed,“you’re wrong.”

 

“Am I.” Pansy leans against the chair of her desk nonchalantly, as if Hermione had no idea what she was talking about, though both of them knew fully well she did.

 

“If _–_ er, _when_ women say it, they’re demeaning themselves _and_ each other as just dogs.”

 

“You are _such_ a cat person.”

 

“Excuse you–I’m being serious! Also, I’m sure plenty dog people would agree with me. I mean, cat fight and terms like those are also sexist.”

 

Pansy pauses here to think. She’s getting caught up in the way Hermione grounds herself when she argues and the way she crosses her arms, tighter and tighter as she gets more stubborn. After some thought, Pansy adds,“You know what _is_ misogynistic? _Son_ of a bitch.”

 

Hermione blinks, and then beams, clearly caught by surprise. “I agree!”

 

“ _But_ ,” Pansy continues, taking this moment of weakness as Hermione assumes she’s won and begins to inwardly celebrate victory, “I don’t see what’s wrong with bitch. It’s an insult, and society has plenty of those, right? Insults are _meant_ to be insulting.”

 

Hermione’s smile disappears as quickly as it had come and a hard expression settles on her facial features. She narrows her eyes and pushes back her bushy hair over her shoulder. “But used passively–”

 

Pansy stops her and shakes her head. “If you’re using an insult passively, the insult is no longer insulting and therefore–”

 

“You’re say women are just _dogs_ , and whether insultingly used or not, it _is_ –”

 

Pansy takes another step closer and Hermione takes one back. Pansy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and licks her lips. It’s intimidating in a way Hermione can’t place, so she takes a measured breath, one she hopes Pansy assumes to be to gather her calm (she _is_ , technically, gathering her calm, but it’s really because she’s just realized she’d very, very much like to kiss Pansy. Or kill her. She’s not quite certain).

 

“Agree to disagree?” says Hermione weakly, checking the worn watch she wears on her wrist. “I have class.”

 

Pansy smirks. “Fine.” She takes a sip of her coffee and gives Hermione a snake-like smile, smug and so, _so_ annoying. If she didn’t have class, she’d–

 

Hermione sighs and ignores the thoughts of kissing her, of strangling her. “Bye, Pansy.”

 

“Bye, Granger.”

 

“Oh, don’t call me that!” she calls from down the hall.

 

Pansy’s low laugh echoes behind her.

 

/ /

 

Hermione invites her to dinner the next day. Or rather, Hermione asks about dinner tentatively and Pansy picks a place and offers to pay.

  
Hermione, who Pansy thinks has been living off ramen for the past few weeks leading away from their fight, looked extremely relieved at this offer, so they settle on a place not-so far away.

 

Hermione’s on-time, of course, and secures a table before Pansy is even half-way through the door. She’s gotten a string of texts from Hermione, all along the lines of “where are you” and “they’re expected me to order _hurry_ ” and “if I wait too long they’ll probably kick me out” to which Pansy responds “coming” and “don’t worry”, respectively.

 

Hermione, of course, continues to worry.

 

By the tenth or so text message, Pansy responds with a “please, calm down” and Hermione seems to do just that, judging by the fact she ceased sending an unrelenting flood of text messages. She must have brought a book–or a textbook, knowing Hermione–so Pansy assumes she reads that, or boring news articles on her phone.

 

When Pansy arrives, she sits down at Hermione’s table, kind of breathless, and says, “I’m sorry I’m _eight_ minutes late.” It’s supposed to be cold and sarcastic, but it’s warmer than she expected.

 

“And thirty seconds,” reminds Hermione, and licks her lips. “I waited for you to order.”

 

“And thirty seconds,” repeats Pansy, rolling her eyes. She adds, slightly softer, “Thank you.”

 

She could swear Hermione’s cheeks turn a shade darker. “So,” says Hermione, and clears her throat. She adjusts the knit scarf she’s wearing, because it is a bit warm in the restaurant, but Pansy’s eyes linger on the flash of her neck for what she barely registers is too long. “What would you say is good here?”

 

Pansy blinks, and composes herself. “I like the curry,” she says. “But, if it’s too spicy for you–” she doesn’t finish her statement. Her tone is too cold, and she mentally reprimands herself, as this is supposed to be a friendly dinner.

 

Fortunately, Hermione doesn’t blink. Maybe she’s used to Pansy’s constantly icy tone. “No, I’m fine,” she says politely. “Want to share one?”

 

It occurs to her, then, that Hermione’s _nervous_. She’s more polite and collected than Pansy’s seen, but she’s playing with the sleeves of her shirt, and bouncing her leg.

 

“Sure,” says Pansy. Hermione sighs in relief, and Pansy figures she has enough evidence to prove Hermione’s nervous, and that it’s her job to make her feel better.

 

Except, she’s not exactly sure how to go about that. “Calm _down_ , Granger,” snaps Pansy, unnecessarily rude and unnecessarily informal. She doesn’t really know how to comfort people, but she figures acting normally might make Hermione feel better.

 

Pansy can see the result immediately. Hermione straightens, but her expression relaxes. “I thought I told you not to call me that,” she says, voice almost a pout.

 

“Yeah, well, can’t have you liking me too much, can we?” responds Pansy, even though this is a worse lie than she’s told in a long time. She would really, really like Hermione to like her too much.

 

Hermione tucks a frizzy strand behind her ear and turns a shade darker, noticeably this time. It’s as if Pansy’s said the wrong thing, though Pansy can’t fathom why. “We’re eating _dinner_ together,” says Hermione, raising an eyebrow. “At a fancy place.”

 

“I always eat at fancy places,” says Pansy. “And you can eat dinner with your enemy.”

 

“You don’t really think that,” sighs Hermione.

 

“I do,” says Pansy, rolling her eyes. “However, I do think the statement’s completely irrelevant to our situation.”

 

“Actually,” Hermione says, and she leans forward just slightly so that Pansy can make out the small mole on her cheek, right underneath the left corner of her left eye, “I would argue otherwise.”

 

“Of course you would,” sniffs Pansy. “You’re a law student.”

 

“Well, I think it’s logical to acknowledge the statement is not completely irrelevant.”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself. Who’s to say you were the person I hated most?”

 

Hermione looks down at the table awkwardly and the waiter serves her, then Pansy, their food. “Who’s to say I wasn’t?” says Hermione, after a pause.

 

“Good point,” Pansy says.

 

“Why thank you,” says Hermione, and she smiles brightly.

 

It occurs, then, to Pansy, that she’d do a lot for that smile.

 

/ /

 

Luna stops by a few days later, Draco in tow. She’s chattering on about aliens and God knows what else, but stops, halfway though the word _pyramid_ when Pansy opens the door and eyes Draco suspiciously.

 

“Hey,” he says, awkwardly. “I brought kimchi.”

 

“Hm,” says Pansy. “For me?” She gives him a wink while Luna hums.

 

He shrugs, and holds out the bag. Pansy immediately recognizes it for what it is–a peace offering and gets up to grab chopsticks. Draco follows her into the kitchen. Someone murmurs a “good bye, Pansy” and Pansy looks up to see Luna gives her a wave and hear a softly mumbled excuse about Ginny and expeditions and good luck charms, none of which Pansy understands. She opts to wave back and give Luna the brightest smile she can muster.

 

“So,” he says seriously, “I have news.”

 

“Take me to dinner, then,” Pansy says. “It’s a tradition.”

 

“I _brought_ you food,” he snorts, and adds, softly, “I did it, you know,” and Pansy’s eyes soften.

  
“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“Oh, Draco, that’s brilliant! How’d it go?” She returns to her bed to eat, because _why not_ , and pats the space beside her on her bed, waiting for him to tell her _everything_.

 

“Fine, I guess,” says Draco, which is code for _better than expected_. “My father’s angry, but my mother–she’s coping. We’re having tea on Sunday.”

 

Pansy gives him a push. “That’s amazing!” And then, making a guilty face, “I’m sorry I blew up about it last time.”

 

He laughs. “I’m sorry I pushed you.”

 

“I think I needed it.”

 

Just like that, they’re friends again, proper, best friends. She pets Crookshanks happily. “How’re you and Hermione?” he asks.

 

“Oh my God,” she says, and lowers her voice to add, “an _issue_.”

 

There’s concern on her face and she waves her hands. “As in,” she says, “I think I might have a really, really big crush on her.”

 

“Oh,” he laughs. “I see. I see.”

 

“I don’t know what to do, Draco!”

  
“Kiss her?” he suggests.

 

Pansy mulls it over. “That’s not very cunning of you.”

 

“Seduce her,” he responds, giving her a wink.

 

“You’re rubbish at advice.”

 

He tips an imaginary fedora and she laughs at him. “ _Rubbish_ ,” she repeats, grinning.

  
Draco has a bright smirk and Pansy stuffs some kimchi into it. His face contorts into this _horror_ and she starts to really laugh, because “Oh my God Pansy, this is _spicy_ and–and–”

 

“It’s good,” she says, which is code for _one more word and..._

 

He wrinkles his nose and sighs. “It’s good.”

 

“Too polite, Draco.”

 

“I know.”

 

/ /

 

They have another movie night. Pansy picks the movie this time, and it’s _not_ a documentary. She holds it up to Hermione and winks.

 

Hermione sighs. “It isn’t about law, is it?” she says, because it sounds more like a defeated statement than a question.

 

“Lighten up and have some fun,” says Pansy. “In fact, Granger,” she adds, “I’m able to pick _fun things_ things not related to my major.”

 

Hermione huffs and holds out a hand to see the plastic case for the CD. She skims in and shrugs. “Well,” she points out, “It’s a movie about journalism, so.”

 

Pansy scowls. It is. “So?”

 

“So, you’re a liar.”

  
“I am _not_.”

 

“That just there was a lie!”

 

Pansy huffs and reaches out for the last cookie, a fake pout spread on her features. Hermione gets there first. She grabs the last cookie in the tin and dramatically raises it to her mouth, a smirk drawn on her features.

 

Pansy gives a mock gasp. “You wouldn’t _dare_ ,” she says. “That’s the _last one_!”

 

Hermione looks her dead in the eye and continues to lift it upwards.

 

The next few events happen one after the other, rapidly. Pansy lunges forward to grab the cookie and the CD case for the movie she’d picked clatters to the floor. Hermione raises her arm up to where Pansy can’t reach and Pansy grabs her arm, trying to draw her eyebrows together in a frown, but she’s smiling too much.

 

They’re both laughing, of course, and Hermione’s saying something about Pansy letting her eat the cookie, and Pansy’s saying something about paying for the damn thing, and suddenly, they’re so close, and if she just leant in a little more–

 

Just like that, they’re kissing. Well. Pansy’s kissing Hermione, and then Hermione’s dropped the cookie onto the bed and _then_ she’s kissing Pansy back. One hand’s snakes to Pansy’s waist, and the other goes to Pansy’s hair.

  
Hermione tastes like peppermint chapstick, coffee, and a lingering sweetness. Pansy kisses her harder.

  
Hermione kisses her back– _harder_.

 

When they stop, panting for breath, Pansy rolls off of her and gives Hermione what she can only imagine to be the goofiest grin she’s ever sported.

  
“Date me,” says Hermione breathlessly.

 

“Oh,” says Pansy faintly, trying and failing to sound nonchalant, all of a sudden without a sharp wit or her sharper tongue. “I’d like that.”

 

She kisses Hermione again.

 

/ /

  
Hermione comes out to Harry and Ron and Ginny in a rush. They’re at The Leaky Cauldron, having drinks, and her cheeks turn a shade darker before she speaks. “I think I’m bi,” she says. “Also, Pansy’s my girlfriend.”

 

“About time,” says Ginny.

 

Harry just stares at her. “I–what?”

 

Ginny looks at him. Raises an eyebrow. “Harry,” she sighs, shaking her head.

 

Ron gives Hermione a look. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

 

“What,” says Hermione, “being bi or having a girlfriend?”

 

“Having _Pansy_ as a girlfriend. She’s–she’s a _witch_. Just last week you were bawling her eyes out because of her!”

 

“Why do you think that was?” says Hermione, calmly.

 

“Ignore them,” says Ginny. “They’ll come round.”

 

“We’re right here, mate,” says Ron.

 

Harry just sits there blankly. “Pansy Parkinson,” he says. “Since when?”

 

Hermione lets it go.

 

/ /

 

Pansy tells Luna Lovegood over a banana smoothie. “I’m dating her,” she says, not bothering to say who _her_ is.

 

Luna looks at her dreamily. “Good.”

 

Pansy smiles. “I know.”

 

/ /

 

Pansy takes Hermione Granger to an art museum. She packs her beat-up sketchbook and slips on her cat-eye sunglasses and wraps her arm around her girlfriend and _smiles_. It feels like a ray of sunlight has drifted over her and she’s basking in it.

 

“It’s _pouring_ ,” complains Hermione. “Can’t we go another time?”

 

“No,” says Pansy, bubble burst. “Grow up, Granger,” she adds, not unkindly.

 

There’s something softer about the way Pansy talks to her, Hermione notices. It’s the same words, still cruel and _annoying_ , but the tone is soft and light. “You’re a romantic,” she blurts, starting to laugh.

 

“Am _not_.”

 

“Oh my _god_ , Pansy Parkinson is a _romantic_!”

 

Pansy just huffs. “Come on, let’s go to the art museum.”

 

“Okay,” says Hermione, still smiling.

 

So they do. Pansy’s quieter at the exhibit than Hermione’s ever seen her before. They go see Monet’s pieces again, and she studies each one with an intensity Hermione has never seen written on Pansy’s features. When Hermione isn’t looking, Pansy studies her, instead.

 

Hermione quickly finds Pansy’s favorite painting. Pansy disappears to the bench and pulls out her sketchbook while Hermione looks at it.

 

It’s not the best sketch, but she’s been itching to draw this painting, and Hermione, her _girlfriend_ , and so she does. It comes out right, too, the way it feels in the real world, and for once, Pansy’s satisfied with it.

 

Hermione meets her after five minutes of sketching and sits down beside her. “I thought you were drawing the art,” she says.

 

“I am,” says Pansy.

 

“In the _background_ ,” says Hermione, not understanding.

  
“It’s a _landscape._ Landscapes are backgrounds,” says Pansy, rolling her eyes.

 

“But you came to draw art, not me.”

 

“I did draw art,” protests Pansy, and Hermione gets it this time.

 

Her mouth makes this cute ‘o’ and her already dark skin turns a shade darker. “You’re gross, Parkinson,” she says, smiling.

 

“I know,” says Pansy, and kisses her, for once unafraid of people staring.

  
She tastes like _Hermione_ , warm and soft and sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> also ty to @gravel-tempo (supercutegeeks) for her poll on snapchat & therefore fueling the titles of these chapters


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